Sermon on the hump

A German pastor has attracted a lot of publicity by holding services which celebrate “the divine element of physical love” (as he puts it).

“There is no life without eroticism and no life without God,” he announced in a rapturous sermon. “My backside, my hands, my tongue, my penis, my earlobes are the landing spots of love.”

The man clearly has a gift for language, but his obsession about his landing spots seems unhealthy to me. A pastor who only has eyes for his own erogenous zones will inevitably neglect the needs of his flock. There seem to be a lot of elderly women in his congregation, so maybe he expects them to oblige him without asking for anything in return. That would be sinful – a man of the cloth should give as well as receive.

The German press were disappointed by the absence of practical demonstrations in his service, and his failure to use dirty words like “bumsen”. There’s no pleasing some people. They should have realised what a breakthrough it was for the word “penis” to be uttered in a church without molten lead being poured into the mouth of the utterer. This will surely open the door for words like “nipple” and “labia” to be used in sermons glorifying the divine aspects of foreplay.

When I mentioned this story to the manager of the safari camp, he scratched his chin pensively.

“All credit to the man for trying something different, but I don’t think it will gain him new followers,” he said. “People who want to combine sex with religion worship gods who encourage them to run around naked and have orgies. Christianity is for the guilty; paganism is for the horny.”

He had a point. I doubt this pastor would impress my friend Kola Boof, high priestess of the Nubian bare-titty movement. She remained true to her “womanist” beliefs even after bin Laden kidnapped her and forced her to wear a burkha (so he could rip it off every night). She is now a published writer and poet, with thousands of Facebook followers who hang on her every word.

Kola’s latest pearl of wisdom is that men who have sex with black women find their penises grow longer. Could this be true? I suppose it might be if black women have coochies like vacuum pumps, which stretch whatever’s inside them. But wouldn’t that make sex with them rather painful?

The problem with Kola is that she’s awfully racist, always going on about the finer qualities of black skin, and calling white men who criticise her “jealous bitches”. She ought to realise that racial differences between humans are barely perceptible to a gorilla. We judge our hairless cousins by qualities that really matter, like the shape of their rumps. You don’t get to have a firm and meaty tush unless you’ve been doing exercises that prepare you for jungle living.

I’ll explain this to Kola the next time I see her. She won't like hearing it, but that’s what friends are for.

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Bras for Africa

The local bigwigs are raising cash for a charity that sends bras to Africa. It seems that women in the West have bras coming out of their armpits, and can afford to donate a few to their un-cupped African sisters. Money is still required to pay for shipping and “sundry expenses”, i.e. the bribes required to prevent the merchandise ending up in a boutique owned by the president’s fat-arsed sister. I can’t help wondering whether it’s safe to transport ladies’ underwear by sea. Merchant sailors are prone to peculiar fancies, and one wouldn’t want the cargo to be seasoned with their sauces and condiments.

I must say I never realised there was such a bra glut in the developed world. Are women continually buying new pairs to match the ever-changing dimensions of their dumplings? An Australian woman on safari looked well-stacked enough to know, so I asked her what was going on.

“You wouldn’t believe how many pairs I have, GB,” she said. “I use one as a holder for pot plants in my garden.”

“Do you have bras of different sizes?” I asked.

“Oh yeah,” she affirmed, adding: “My tits have changed size more often than my prescription for spectacles.”

She then gave me a long list of activities which might cause a woman’s breasts to alter in magnitude, ranging from pregnancy to heavy breathing. Frequent groping, she assured me, changes their shape but not their size. Who was I to argue?

One person who certainly won’t be donating a penny to this charity is my friend Kola Boof, the Nubian freedom fighter and poetess. She views the brassiere as an oppressive chest-shackle invented by imperialist white men to enslave the proud African bosom. Devotees of her bare-titty cult will no doubt be agitating against this scheme in various ways, possibly including sabotage. I will advise Kola to play it cool and let the fad run out of steam of its own accord. Dumping bras into the Atlantic Ocean would annoy a lot of people who might otherwise be sympathetic, including fishermen and snorkelers.

My only issue with this charity is that many of the donated bras won’t find a suitable pair of jahoobies to encase, given that African women tend to have fuller figures than their Caucasian sisters. There aren’t many AA ladies in our neck of the jungle, which I must admit has never previously been a cause for concern. What other uses are there for small-cupped bras? The manager of the safari camp suggests giving them to the chimpanzees, who are pretty inventive in their use of human bric-a-brac. But suppose they actually wore them? It’s the sort of thing that would make us a laughing stock if anyone took pictures.

A better idea might be donating them to fruit vendors to put their wares in. It could be a very successful marketing ploy. Imagine a nice juicy pair of oranges hanging demurely inside a Balconette Banger Booster by Gok Wan. I don’t see many men walking past the stall without giving them a squeeze at the very least.

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Scarlett fever

It’s a shame I didn’t run into Scarlett Johansson during her recent visit to Africa. I might have given her some useful tips about our native gels and lotions. Trekking around the jungle in hotpants is all very well, but it does make a woman with milky-white flesh an obvious target for the mosquitoes. Her legs must have stood out like bananas in a green salad. Had I known she was coming, I would have sent her a natural ointment to rub on her thighs after her morning shower.

Be that as it may, I have no doubt that Scarlett’s visit was a tremendous morale boost for the local women. For far too long, they have occupied a servile position under the prevailing “Big Man” culture. The sight of a gorgeous young actress surrounded by an entourage of fawning male flunkies would have conveyed a powerful message. Scarlett, indeed, was quick to express solidarity with her bullied and harassed black sisters.

“I’ve always found that women have power in numbers,” she remarked. “We draw strength from the support of other women.”

Tell me about it! When I was in the circus, I soon realised that advancing my interests depended on establishing close bonds with the all-girl acrobat team. So I engineered what biologists call “a symbiosis” and political scientists call “an alliance”. I curried their favour by performing chores such as carrying baggage and apprehending peeping toms. They, in return, let me borrow their grooming products, which are frankly far more useful to a gorilla than any number of human females.

We also backed each other up at staff meetings. When the ringmaster ludicrously suggested that I dress up in a genie costume for Christmas, all I had to do was grunt disdainfully for the girls to vigorously pooh-pooh his proposal. No motion was ever carried without the support of what became known as the “Bananas and Cream Consortium”.

This political education served me well when I returned to the jungle and acquired a harem. Female gorillas are not technically women, but they are sisters under the fur and the similarities outweigh the differences. The way to handle them is as follows: first, guess what they want to do; then, order them to do it. This puts them in a quandary, as they cannot defy my commands without abandoning their own plans. Hence they usually do as I direct, while gesturing obscenely as a way of demonstrating their independence. I laugh it off as a show of high-spirits from within the ranks.

Sadly, African men are not as adept as managing their females as we silverbacks. They lack a little something called finesse. That’s why my friend Kola Boof, the self-styled womanist, believes that nothing short of a full-blown matriarchy will suffice. As well as being a wily political agitator, she has written many poems eulogising the indomitable spirit of the jungle queen who wields a deadly machete and proudly exposes her breasts. This is surely the kind of philosophy that Scarlett should seek to promote if she is serious in her desire to empower her sex. I must send her one of Kola’s books for Christmas.

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A generous offer

A pat on the back for the Kenyan man who offered Hillary Clinton twenty cows and forty goats for her daughter’s hand in marriage. Hilldog thanked him graciously and promised to convey his proposal to Chelsea, but shouldn’t a mother do more than act as a mere go-between? I hope she sits down with Chelsea and reviews her current list of suitors, putting a line through all the fortune-hunters and gigolos without a cow or goat to their name. That’s the kind of hands-on parenting I like to see in my human cousins.

The Clintons are denying that their 29-year-old daughter is planning to marry this year. If I were Chelsea’s godmother, I’d advise her to get hitched while the bloom is still fresh on the rose. The latest pictures of her suggest that her resemblance to pappy is growing stronger by the day. He’s not a bad looking fellow by any means, but his features won’t travel well across the gender divide. Can anyone imagine a less attractive woman than Bill Clinton in drag? I tried to do so and it gave me stomach cramps.

Whenever the wedding occurs, I doubt it will be a highlight of the social calendar. Knowing Bill, he’ll want to hold in it Arkansas so that every Cletus and Thetus who knew him when he was governor can pay his respects. I pity the guests from out of state who’ll have to spend a couple of days in a place devoid of tourist attractions. The Holidays in Hicksville guide says the state’s main leisure activities are possum-hunting, square-dancing and speculating on which children are the product of an incestuous union.

The Arkansans should learn from their cowboy cousins in Oklahoma, who have put up a bronze statue of Angelina Jolie suckling her twins. The breasts are entirely visible and you couldn’t wish to see rounder pair of milk dumplings. I should imagine it will quickly become a place of pilgrimage for those who venerate the mother in all her boobaceous munificence. The only problem with the sculpture is the presence of the feeding twins, who will prevent visitors from allowing their own infants to suck on Angelina’s bronze nipples. Maybe she should go there in person every month to wet-nurse the lucky winner of a raffle.

Chelsea, of course, is much too sophisticated and intelligent to have people thinking about her breasts. Even the manager of the safari camp, who is a fanatical boob-man, admitted that he hadn’t considered them until I brought up the subject. A lot of credit must go to Chelsea herself, who has never been tempted to take part in a wet t-shirt competition or allowed herself to be photographed in a bikini. This is the behaviour of a young woman who expects to have a career in high politics. You can’t have good working relationships with foreign statesmen if they’re thinking about your tits the whole time.

Yet according to my friend Kola Boof, women won’t truly be liberated until they can walk around topless without caring what men think about it. The goddess, she points out, is traditionally bare-breasted to excite the fervour of her devotees. Thus a woman who exposes her bosom is actually projecting her divine spark. I have my reservations about this argument, but I’m not going to debate titties with Kola. Those who want to cross swords with her may ask me for her email address.

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Gender politics

The dismissal of Dr “Beetroot” Msimang has been greeted with much rejoicing in South Africa, but I can’t help feeling sorry for the woman. The former health minister was demoted to presidential masseuse after failing to shake off the ignominy of claiming that garlic was a cure for AIDS. She must have confused the disease with vampires, who also infect the blood of their victims. Let us hope that she follows the example of Mr Profumo in gradually restoring her good name by eating humble pie and working for charitable causes. Probably best to stay clear of AIDS charities though.

Looking at things with a gorilla’s impartial eye, I wonder about the wisdom of having female ministers of state. A woman won’t shine in politics if she has to pussyfoot around with parliaments and cabinets, explaining her actions to men who treat her like a walking petticoat. She really needs to be a queen, preferably with life-and-death powers over her subjects. The good thing about female tyrants is that they are relatively moderate and won’t initiate gruesome purges just to remind everyone who the daddy is. The only exception I can think of is Mary Tudor, who burned a lot of people for no good reason after taking a Spaniard into her bed. Some experiences will bring out the pyromaniac in any woman. But by and large, you’ve got to do something pretty horrendous for a queen to cook your goose. The Queen of Hearts was funny only because she was so atypical.

Opinions differ on what the best sort of queen is. The neo-classicists favour a scheming temptress like Cleopatra, who bends powerful men to her will by wantonly feeding their bedroom fetishes. The neo-barbarians prefer the fearless virago, who rides into battle in an armour-plated brassiere and can throttle a man between her muscular thighs. As a dutiful son of the Mother Continent, I endorse the semi-mythical African queens so vividly described by Ms Kola Boof. These Nubian sovereigns were bisexual necromancers who wore no clothes and could summon forest demigods for Earthly congress. It is said that they brought their female votaries to ecstasy by licking the tips of their noses. It is a salutary lesson for modern humans that naked women were once revered for the majesty of their souls.

Politics, nevertheless, is not the ideal career for well-bred women. Dr Whipsnade’s friend, Lady Chuffington, is fretting about the prospects of her eldest daughter, currently enrolled in a Cultural Studies programme at the University of East London. The girl apparently dresses in the “Gothic” style and intends to spend the next summer vacation making a film about “Inkubus Sukkubus”, a musical ensemble venerated by her cult. In her desperation, Her Ladyship has asked me to counsel the wayward chit.

“Perhaps you might speak to her, Mr Bananas,” she said on the phone last week. “Tell her that there is nothing clever (or “cool” as they say) about dressing like a drag performer’s widow on the day of his funeral.”

“Lady Chuffington,” I replied, “rather than criticising her current fashion sense, I would prefer to induce a change in her behaviour by citing positive alternatives.”

“Well do as you wish!” she replied rather testily. “I am concerned with the outcome rather than the stratagem used to bring it about.”

I have since studied some pictures of these Gothic women and frankly I’ve seen a lot worse. Their “Brides of Dracula” look gives them the appearance of devilishly sensual creatures who might even tempt a hard-bitten male gorilla to become a little harder and more bitten. Yet I’ve made a promise to Lady Chuffington and I’m not the sort to ape to go back on his word. I shall talk to her daughter – but I’m damned if I know what I’ll say to her.

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The hunt for bin Laden

A fellow called Morgan Spurlock has made a documentary about the on-going manhunt for bin Laden. The mood of the film can be summed up as follows:

They seek him here, they seek him there,
Those missiles seek him everywhere.
Is he indoors, or in someone’s garden?
That damned elusive Osama bin Laden.

I give the man full marks for enthusiasm, but he’s clearly out of his depth. To catch a slippery fish like bin Laden you’ve got to be an experienced bounty hunter, equipped with the latest gadgets and mingling with the shadiest characters. Spurlock’s credentials are weak to the point of non-existent. It’s the old story of antiquated kit and piss-poor intelligence leading to a futile wild-goose chase.

A lot of humans seem to have their own pet schemes for liquidating the goatish fugitive. Last Easter, at Dr Whipsnade’s dinner table, I heard an English country gent explaining how he would go about it.

“Give my hounds a scent of his briefs and let them loose in North Waziristan at daybreak,” declared Hubert ‘Sniffer’ Gusset. “They’ll be biting chunks off the blighter before sundown!”

I couldn’t avoid sucking my teeth in disbelief, even though it’s not the best table manners. Bin Laden may be a crafty fiend, but fox he is not. Nor does he wear underpants beneath those demure ankle-length frocks he models for Al Jazeera. How do I know about these sartorial details? Because I have a reliable informant who’s seen Osama from inside the llama’s lair. I bullshit ye not, ladies and gentlemen, I actually know a woman who was bin Laden’s concubine in the flower of her nubility.

Ever since I wrote an essay about her in September 2006, Ms Kola Boof has been a regular correspondent. (I have since deleted the post for reasons that are none of your business, but my longstanding readers may remember it). This proud Nubian damsel was abducted by the Yemeni Yeti in the 1990s and forced into a grim existence as his sex slave. She eventually managed to give him the slip, and went on to found an authentic African religion involving Earth-mother, bare-titty themes. She currently lives in California and has published a number of poems and short stories.


Incidentally, just because a man is wanted for terrible crimes it doesn’t mean his lesser ones should be ignored or forgiven. As I mentioned above, Ms Boof was far from being a willing adornment to bin Laden’s camel-hair rug. Back in my circus days, I remember hearing about the trial of a notorious con-man who’d swindled pensioners out of their life savings. When his picture appeared in the newspapers, one of our female acrobats recognised him as the flasher who’d ruined her breakfast at a café in Littlehampton. I applauded her civic spirit when she resolved to appear as a character witness for the prosecution, although it turned out her testimony was inadmissible. I don’t understand these legal technicalities. A man who indecently exposes himself at a woman with her mouth full is surely capable of anything.

Returning to the bin Laden case, Ms Boof has supplied me with inside information about the scoundrel’s biggest weakness. In a word, it’s poontang. According to Kola, he became deranged with lust for Whitney Houston when he saw her on TV, dreaming up the craziest plots to kidnap the chanteuse and ravish her inside his tent. Hence the best way of bringing about his downfall might be to persuade a Whitney look-alike to prostitute herself in a noble cause (the real Miss Houston being too far gone for such work).

If our intrepid Mata Hari were to go round the karaoke bars of Peshawar singing ‘I will always love you’, bin Laden would soon get to hear of it, and no doubt think she was singing about him, the conceited ass. Little would he know about the high-voltage device implanted in her vagina, capable of killing a man with a single lethal jolt, or rendering him incontinent at the very least. I don’t see him making any more boastful videos after an experience like that. Better implant one in her rectum as well to be on the safe side.

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